Hervé Massonnet

Hervé Massonnet watched from the balcony. She emerged from the limousine, slender as a blade, in a dress the color of burnished steel. The owner of Iris and a shadowy arms empire. For him, a mosaic he'd been assembling for years.

He gave her folios and statues. She accepted them with cold politeness, but kept her distance.

• Everything is ready, monsieur. He is having dinner with her.

The minister's son. Hervé squeezed the mother-of-pearl pen. His patience was exhausted.

---

She woke up in silks, among Modigliani originals.

• Good morning.

— Where am I? Where is Julien?

• You are mine. He was unworthy.

Hervé opened the dark wood box. On the velvet was a face with closed eyes.

"I promised to get your attention. Promises are my currency."

• You want me to hate you.

— Hatred—attention. I will accept it.

• You killed the minister's son. You're finished.

— The minister has resigned. You are free to go. I've thought it all through.

• Will I become a prisoner?

— My muse. Queen. We will unite empires.

He extended his hand.

— I was an admirer. Now I'm your only chance.

She looked at her hand, then into his eyes. Not fear, but recognition.

She didn't take the hand. But she didn't turn away.

"I'll bring coffee," Hervé said. "We have time to discuss the details. All the details."